Drow of the Rings
by Nihil Asara
Summary: Drizzt from R.A. Salvatore finds himself in Arwen's body shortly before the Fellowship of the Ring.
1. Chapter 1

"Arwen, be calm."

She was anything but calm, and that name was far from helpful in suppressing her frustration. "Let me help you Aragorn. If this quest is as important as you say then take me with you. I won't be a burden."

"Arwen… you are still unwell. The journey will be a harsh one."

But she wasn't ill. She was simply dead certain she wasn't who everyone said she was. Their answer was always the same. But she knew differently. "My name is Drizzt."

"You should rest," murmured Aragorn. He reached out to tenderly brush her cheek but Drizzt leapt upwards, landing nimbly with slippered feet atop the railing. Beneath her lay a sparkling waterfall, so different in its beauty from the stark environs of the Underdark. Aragorn attempted to capture her and pull her to safety but she deftly sidestepped him without ever losing her balance on the slender stone railing.

"I can't stay in this dying city. If I rest any longer I fear I'll suffocate."

Drizzt hopped off the railing, landing near the man Arwen was said to have loved. Aragorn was a pleasant sort, for a human. But then again, everyone had been nice to her here, in this body. If she was still violet-eyed drow she doubted her welcome would have been quite so friendly. Assuming, that is, they even knew what a drow was. The more she learned of this land the more alien it seemed. The surface world was larger than she'd ever imagined.

She dearly wished still had Guenhwyvar, but the panther was as lost to her as her male body was. Sometimes all that kept the Hunter personality from surfacing was the warmth of the sun on her face. Drizzt had left the Underdark after many years of wandering and glimpsed the sun for but a moment before awaking in Arwen's body several months ago. This new land, new life, was a realization of her dreams in many ways. Still, sometimes it was hard not to grab a knife and cut her way to freedom. The stifling care of the elves of Rivendell was different from everything she'd experienced. It was lucky she was always quick to pick up languages or they might never have let her out of Arwen's chambers.

Drizzt matched eyes with Aragorn, looking for cracks in his resolve but finding none. "So be it," said Drizzt. She turned to walk away.

"Arwen, don't let us part like this. You know that I love you. I would make your every wish come true, but not if it carries you to ruin."

Drizzt baked away from him like a skittish horse, turning her face away from his devotion. There was little love to be found amongst drow, but in her most peculiar life she had learned enough of the subject to know that what she was about to say would hurt him deeply. She steeled herself and met his eyes again. "I fail to see why you have any right to dictate how I live my life. If you will not take me at my word then I'll prove it with steel. Duel me to first blood, Ranger."

But then Elrond came upon them and the game was lost. "Aragorn," he said, "the fellowship awaits you at the gates. You should tarry no longer." Usually Drizzt was glad that Arwen's father disapproved of her suitor and did his best to keep them apart, but in this case she was frustrated with him and his unusual ability to know whenever she spoke to Aragorn.

Drizzt slipped away unnoticed by the pair of posturing men. If she couldn't leave with their blessing she'd leave without it. They permitted her no weapons during her supposed recovery, but she refused to let that stop her. There was no telling what Naomi, her caretaker, would or wouldn't notice missing, but she was confident she could grab a few useful things. Grabbing appropriate clothes and supplies for a longer journey through unknown terrain was probably out of the question though. If her gambit was discovered too early they could drag her back. Drizzt wasn't particularly worried about leaving under-equipped though. Whatever dangers lurked in the surface world, she fiercely doubted they could compare to the terrors of the Underdark.

Proper travel rations and gear were denied to her, but there was always other options. Drizzt had observed that these high elves were remarkably trusting. That her new body was that of the lord of Rivendell's daughter only made that trust more obvious. The knowledge that with every moment the fellowship drew further away made her anxious to depart as well, but Drizzt was careful to show none of it to the elves she passed. As long as she kept her face from giving her away, the only ones who might fathom her plan in time was Elrond or Arwen's brothers.

Food from the banquet for the fellowship remained for the taking on the eastern plaza. Drizzt was cautious in her thefts, a plate of fruits and bread all she took at first. Meat came next. The high elves were not fond of red meat but had graciously provided it for the men, hobbits and dwarves that had attended the council. Drizzt wished they'd been so gracious with her. Despite the change of body she'd been craving a nice rare steak for weeks now.

After squirrelling the food away in a stone alcove by the waterfall she moved to her next target. It was child's play to sneak into the kitchens, hidden by the sounds of bubbling pots and the cutting of vegetables. It wasn't food she searched for now - she already had as many perishables as could be easily carried and eaten - but tools. Silent as an assassin she liberated a bag of crushed salt and a small iron pot. Most of the knives were kept too deeply in the kitchen to try for safely, but Drizzt did manage to snag a small paring knife that had been left out. It would be enough, thought Drizzt. At least so long as she didn't run into any dragons.

Mission accomplished, she slinked out of the kitchen. " _Xsa'ol,"_ she cursed under her breath in Drowic. Drizzt spun around a corner and headed into the gardens to avoid the oncoming threat. She was nearly certain she'd sensed Elrond approaching. Most of the time Arwen's father appeared quite unthreatening, but Drizzt had learned that the ellon (elf-man) had hidden depths. When his mood was dark the air grew heavy in his presence as if storm clouds gathered on his shoulders. She'd planned to go to her room next and gather a few items from the elf princess's titanic wardrobe but Elrond's bad humour left Drizzt uneasy.

Inspiration struck as she once more passed by the picnic tables. A furtive glance revealed no one in the area as she darted out into the clearing to snatch a tablecloth. It wouldn't replace an oiled cloak or a good pair of boots but at least it would give her a way to carry her supplies. Last essential item acquired, she retreated to her hidden alcove to wait for the appropriate moment.

* * *

Once again, Drizzt marveled as colors painted the sky with the sun's fading glory. Even as a drow Drizzt had been breathtaken by the beauty of the surface world. Now that she could experience it without the sun burning her skin and eyes, the beauty of the green expanse was even more profound. The night, however, held its own allure. Drizzt was no stranger to the dark, but there was something about staring up into a boundless sky full of tiny points of light that freed the soul. More practically, it meant that the time to escape had arrived at last.

Drizzt bundled up her supplies in the tablecloth as quietly as possible, listening for sounds of approaching elves all the while. Few except for Arwen's mischievous brothers made any conscious attempt to be stealthy but the high-elves were naturally light-footed. It would only take one incautious moment to have one stumble upon her unawares. Thankfully the coast was clear as she made her way to the railing overlooking the waterfall. For the second time that day Drizzt took up the precarious perch, this time more cautiously. The food and cooking supplies she carried in the tablecloth were an even more cumbersome and awkward burden than she'd imagined.

Drizzt closed her eyes, ignoring the braided hair rustling at her neck and the billowing of the skirt Naomi had forced her into. Using the wind as a meditative focus she called to her magic. In many ways it was a less fickle energy than what she had channeled as a drow, but it was also less eager. It took patient coaxing to form the energy into anything useable. What had once been the simplest of cantrips were now nearly beyond her grasp. Innate drow skills like conjuring a globe of darkness were often even trickier. For whatever reason they were difficult to cast at night, and virtually impossible during the day.

Drizzt gasped as at last the magic rose to her bidding. The levitation spell lay ready, but beyond it lay an ocean of energy. It filled her body with strength, sharpening her senses until they rivalled the Hunter's, that half-feral mentality that had nearly consumed Drizzt during her years in the Underdark. That was when she felt it - an out of place murmur of wind. Drizzt spun on the railing, nearly falling as she saw who approached.

"Glorfindel, what are you doing here?" Inwardly Drizzt was cursing up a storm. In all of Rivendell there was only one elf perhaps more powerful than Elrond, and thanks her to Lloth-cursed luck he was standing nearly in arms' reach. Could he grab her before she could jump away? Drizzt wasn't sure.

"Searching for you," replied Glorfindel, voice calm and subtly confident as always. "Your father is worried for you."

"He need not," she replied sharply. "I'm quite capable of taking care of myself." Drizzt hesitated, unsure of whether or not to twist the knife. "Besides," she continued, "I'm not really his daughter. Perhaps this will prove that."

She leapt, wind in her hair as she slid through the air. "Arwen!" shouted Glorfindel as he tried to grab her - too late. The levitation spell kept her feather-light as she glided away from the cliffs. Then, quite suddenly, the wind changed. Her lack of weight worked against her now. AS a drow the spell had simply created an upward push, but her best recreation of the innate spell was to lower her weight to nearly nothing. As a result, the wind shifted her course as quickly as it would the feather her weight resembled.

For a brief moment she despaired, but then her frustration burned hot. "I won't let you imprison me here Glorfindel!" she shouted over the wind. Spinning in midair she threw the sack of items at him as hard as her arms would allow. It didn't hit him, sadly, but the cloud of salt that exploded from it ruined Glorfindel's concentration. The recoil from the sack and the shift of the wind sent her hurtling away from the cliff.

The distance between her and Glorfindel was over a hundred paces now, likely too far for his magics to grasp her again. Still, Drizzt had already underestimated the elf lord once. Easing her hold on the levitation spell her weight increased to that of a small rabbit (amazingly fluffy, these surface creatures were). The force of gravity accelerated her travel to just barely safe speeds. Luckily while Arwen's arms weren't up to Drizzt's standards, her legs were passably strong allowing her to come to a trotting landing along the icy riverbank.

She glanced back, Glorfindel literally glowing in the twilight. She worried for a moment that the elf-lord would leap down the cliff after her but instead he turned and disappeared, no doubt off to inform Elrond of his daughter's escape.

She'd have to hurry. She'd intended to glide for miles and land near the fellowship but instead Drizzt was a bare 300 paces from Rivendell and on the wrong side of the river. The terrain might stop her pursuers from using horses but her - Arwen's - brothers wouldn't let that stop them for long. In less than an hour's time they'd be on her trail, and whether it took one day or seven they would run her down. Unless… unless she didn't leave a trail.

The forest was lovely, dark and deep; the trees wondrous yet calming. If the night nurtured her magic, the woods breathed life into it. Drawing on the energy of the forest it was easier than ever to maintain the levitation spell. Well-timed leaps carried her from tree to tree, each jump carrying her thirty feet or more. If not for the wind it could have been even farther, but even so the river proved little obstacle. Sadly the trees soon faded out into grassland, and their strength with them.

Despite showing talent during her brief time at the Sorcere tower, Drizzt acknowledged she was no mage. The knowledge that all drow had a chaotic resistance to magic that caused many spells cast on them to fizzle had left her dubious of the value of spellcraft. The knowledge that most sorcerers were reduced to casting glitter charms on noble drow houses to earn their keep had further dulled her appetite to learn magic. She'd let her skills in the field languish ever since the apprenticeship ended and she was paying for it now. Despite the spell being weak, the twenty minutes spent in concentration were already giving her a headache.

She let her weight rise to sixty pounds or so to better combat the wind, long ten-foot strides carrying her across the plains faster than any horse. The bounce of her chest was both annoying and disturbing, but not too disruptive to her running rhythm. Thankfully high elves seemed to be less bosomy than drow, proportionally at least. She doubted her sister Vierna could have run like this without some sort of restraint.

She took a long drink from the river before turning east. Thanks to Glorfindel it might be the last water she had until she found the fellowship. The dull ache in her head was only increasing, despite lowering the strength of the levitation spell. She kept at it though. There was still ground to cover and with the way her legs were starting to burn there was no way she could make it without the aid of the spell.

In the end she nearly passed them by. A particularly high leap brought her sight of a small campfire, dug into the dirt. It was hard to believe that they'd made so little progress from Rivendell, but as she drew closer she spied Aragorn's too-familiar silhouette. Dropping her weight to just a few pounds she landed lightly on his head, drawing the astonishment of the fellowship. "Miss me?" she said, right before she canceled the spell entirely and sent his face crashing into his bowl of porridge.


	2. Chapter 2

Chap 2

Boromir was the first to notice the intruder, a witch's silhouette against the starlit sky. He moved to draw his sword but what happened next made him still. "Mish mae?" she said in barely intelligible Sindarin.

She moved from Aragorn's head to the ground after sending him into his porridge. After sputtering Aragorn replied, "What are you doing here?" The hobbits were begging Legolas for a translation but so far the elf was more interested in observing.

"Yoush skipped out on oar dooel," she said with a glint in her eye.

Boromir considered himself conversant in Sindarin, borderline fluent, but her accent was nothing he'd ever heard. It was only his experience in parsing Faramir's early attempts at the language as a child that let him parse the simultaneously choppy yet melodic speech. It was not uncommon for elves to speak liltingly, but her melody was more akin to songs of loss and tragedy than the woodland flutes most resembled. Was this an elfling then that hadn't yet learned to speak properly? She did resemble one in character with her childlike antics and youthful vigor. The way Aragorn was acting like she'd slipped free of her minders added to that impression.

Still, she didn't look like a child. Her skirt rose in the wind, revealing the shapely legs of a women. Likewise the thin silk of her blouse did little to conceal her nipples, erect in the January chill - though as a gentleman he immediately averted his eyes. He supposed it didn't prove anything. The age of adulthood for elves was said to be a 100 years old, as impossible as that seemed for mortals such as himself. Still, with such a long maturation period perhaps the mind trailed behind the body, for all that he would have guessed the opposite.

"Arwen, you must head back to Rivendell. The journey is far from safe."

"Then it is besht I not trawel alone. I will jusht have to come weth yous."

' _Arwen?'_ Thought Boromir. ' _Arwen Undomiel? It cannot be.'_ There was no way that this fey creature could be the legendarily beautiful princess. She acted nothing like someone older than the kingdom of Rohan should act. That said… if one excused the twigs in her hair and her immodest dress he supposed she was fetching enough to more or less match the stories. If she truly was the Evenstar it would explain why she made no appearance at the council or any of the many feasts. She was, perhaps, a beauty best experienced at a distance to keep the prim and proper Elrond from embarrassment. After all, it would seem that Lady Arwen was either mad or a touch simple.

Perhaps he should intervene? Elrond might look unkindly on Gondor if a prince of the realm let his innocent daughter consort with a rogue like Aragorn, supposed king or not. Then again, elvish business was best left as elvish business. Legolas would take care of her if he felt it necessary.

*A/N*

Drizzt's listening skills are better than his speaking skills. Alas, Boromir done got judgemental.


	3. Chapter 3

Chap 3

All save Drizzt and Legolas were asleep, though she did wonder about Gandalf. His open-eyed sleep was eery, eyes always seeming to follow her. He was half the reason she had yet to find slumber. Her last encounter with with a human wizard had left her leery of the species. Gandalf seemed no less mad, though less sinister. Aragorn continued to dote on her which in her opinion made him mad as well, though she did appreciate him giving her his blanket. Boromir at least did not seem so bad, though she had caught him stealing glances at her legs during dinner until she adjusted the hem of her skirt.

She did not know what to make of the dwarf. She didn't understand a word he said, but while he spoke gruffly there didn't seem to be any real heat to his words. If nothing else he was more fair to look at than the svirfneblin she had once lived with. Deep gnomes were good people but extraordinarily ugly to her eyes. Sort of the reverse of drow, she supposed.

The hobbits, even smaller than the dwarf, she judged to be harmless. Shocking really. In the Underdark nothing was harmless. Their only ability was that of eating inordinate amounts of food. After only a few hours with them she could understand better the slow progress of the fellowship. It seemed like every hour at least one of the hobbits strayed off to deal with the end result of all their overeating or demand that the group stop for a snack break. Still, even if they did remind her of rothe beasts she was becoming fond of Frodo. He knew just enough Sindarin to begin teaching her the beginnings of Westron.

Legolas… he was different. It was too early to be sure but he seemed less uptight than the elves of Rivendell for all that she'd heard he was a woodland prince. It was too late in the day to solve that mystery though. For now it was time to sleep.

Barely had she drifted off when a hand shook her back awake. If not for the blanket tangled around her she might have broken his hand out of reflex. "Lady Arwen, are you unwell?" The phrase was uncomfortably familiar but the voice was not.

"Legolas…" she murmured. "Why do you ask?"

"Your eyes were closed, you appeared asleep."

She frowned. "And why is that so odd? Is it not customary to sleep during the night?" In the Underdark night and day had little meaning but during her limited classes on the surface world at Melee-Magthere her instructor had said that most races slept when the sun was down.

"Not for elves," he said slowly. "Not unless they are very young or very sick."

Curious but annoyed she turned away from him. "I am neither, and you may call me Drizzt." She was used to loneliness, and was glad for a bit of conversation, but this was too much. After spending so long with only a panther for company it was extremely trying to have near-strangers constantly question her sanity and every action she took. "Goodnight."


	4. Chapter 4

Chap 4:

Drizzt was surprised that days passed without any sign of Glorfindel or the twins. She'd hidden her trail well and told no one save Aragorn that she wished to join the fellowship, but she'd still half expected them to find her somehow. Instead it appeared that Elrond's unnatural ability to know exactly where she was didn't extend beyond the borders of Rivendell.

Overall it was an enjoyable journey thus far. Frodo continued to teach her Westron and she was beginning to understand the bawdy jokes they told when they thought she wasn't listening. Unlike in Rivendell it didn't feel like everyone was walking on eggshells around her, not all the time at least. She was certain Aragorn had forced them into the conspiracy to humor her when she said her name was Drizzt and yet call her Arwen anyways. There was also a disturbing amount of deference to her as a lady, though as a noble of House Do'Urden she wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the treatment. Oddly, in some ways it felt like Arwen and her had lived parallel lives, for all that so much was reversed.

The annoying height advantage Legolas had on her was an annoying reminder that despite switching bodies and gaining several inches in height she was still a member of the weaker sex. It was sort of ironic. As a child when being taught that males were lesser beings meant to serve and obey she'd occasionally wished she were a girl so that Vierna would be kind to her again. Now those long-forgotten wishes had come true but as a race where instead females were lesser. Admittedly the surface-dwellers didn't accompany their condescension with beatings thus far but even the hobbit commoners (all save Frodo as far as she could tell) thought her incapable of even lighting a campfire. Still, even as a drow male she'd gained some small measure of respect in Menzoberranzan thanks to her blood and skill with weapons. She might do so again here if she could ever convince them to lend her a sword.

She'd underestimated just how _cold_ the journey would be. In the Underdark the temperature rarely changed much save when approaching water or magma. Rain and snow and _weather_ as they called it still caught her off guard. The changes in temperature if had only increased since leaving Rivendell, leaving the nights bitterly cold. She'd taken to sleeping between Sam's pony and the campfire at night to keep from freezing. She suspected Boromir would have given her his blanket as well had she asked but she felt guilty enough already from being so unprepared. Besides, the pony wasn't so bad, though his fur didn't match the sleekness of Guenhwyvar's.

The days were better, though the chill of the air never entirely left her bones save during her morning exercise routine. She'd taken to wearing the blanket as a cape throughout the day though it made her feel like a child. She hoped the weather would change for the better soon. The slippers she'd worn during the escape were extremely well-fashioned but were made for beauty, not travel. Already she could feel them fraying and even while whole they provided little protection against sharp rocks and chill. Thus far it felt like the fellowship had exceedingly poor luck with windy, chill days meeting them continually. She could have sworn the weather was more forgiving a few months ago when she first became Arwen.


	5. Chapter 5

Chap 5:

It was winter, Frodo had eventually explained. Winter… it was a foul word, she decided. He had compounded her displeasure with the season by mentioning that high, in the mountains it was even colder and the air grew thin and hard to breathe. She'd thought it simply a random fact until he mentioned they planned to travel over said mountains. Boromir had piped in then, declaring in stilted Sindarin that the route past Gondor was far more sensible. She was inclined to agree with him, though she knew nothing of the area's geography. They shared their complaints between them for a time rather amicably until he moved to the head of the party as the snow grew thick.

He served a purpose up there, tromping the snow down so that the hobbits and pony could pass more readily, but she was a bit peeved at him for leaving her behind. He was her only source of friendly conversation save for Frodo after all. Frodo was nice but he was prone to long bouts of silence as he clutched the necklace beneath his shirt.

She herself had taken to perching atop Bill - the pony's name, she had learned -. He'd tried to shake her off once or twice but after lowering her weight with another levitation spell he'd mostly decided to put up with her. Even with the sun out she'd grown more adept at the casting over time but without a forest to aid her she couldn't extend the spell to Bill or the satchels she carried. Not yet, anyways. Given that her feet would freeze solid if she left the pony for too long she had plenty of time to practice.

She frowned as her eyes moved to Legolas. The forest prince was entirely too light-spirited on the snowy slopes of Caradhras. Without tiring his magic he had stayed atop the surface of the snow seemingly effortlessly while staying warm with little more clothing than her. That he managed it despite the wind was amazing and slightly infuriating.

He seemed to sense her glare, cocking his head at her in question. "What spell is that," she asked. "The one that keeps you warm?"

He switched to walking backwards. "It is the same trick as is used by the elves of Rivendell, I would imagine."

"And what spell is that?"

"Lady Arwen, if you are testing me I'm afraid I'm doomed to failure. It's been many centuries since my schooling and I was always more of an instinctual learner than one who gained by memorization and equations."

Drizzt felt her too-full lips purse in confusion. "Centuries? You don't look more than 150."

"I am 634 years old Arwen."

"At least try to make it believable," replied Drizzt. "That would make you older than my mother."

Legolas paused, Bill stopping next to him as we slowly fell behind the rest of the fellowship. "Undomiel… I fear I am playing the fool for asking this, but how old are you?

"Forty-three," said Drizzt. "Perhaps forty-four now."

For the first time she'd seen he lost his balance, shoes sinking through the snow before he regained his composure.

"Arwen, you were born over 2700 years ago."

*A/N*

Going with Hobbit version of Legolas that had him seem younger, roughly Tauriel's age (which I heard was around 600). Next chap probably Gimli-perspective.


	6. Chapter 6

Chap 6.

The mood around the campfire was grim. Arwen had already gone to sleep, claiming a headache, but the rest of the fellowship were too intent for exhaustion to take them. "She must go back to Rivendell," said Legolas.

"I have said that from the start," said Aragorn, "but it is too late to send her back alone. The way is not safe."

Legolas stood, hair gleaming in the firelight. "Then I will take her back myself. I know not what devilry has befallen her but she thinks herself an elfling but forty-three years old. It as if she has forgotten the past 2700 years of her life."

"To forget so much, it is a terrible thing," said Boromir. "I now see why her speech is so strange. Even so, she seems to be improving and is learning Westron quickly. And even with so many years lost she is still older than the hobbits."

"It is not the same!" said Legolas. "And worse, I suspect she believes her mother still lives on these shores."

"She said that?" Aragorn hung his head. "Her illness began so suddenly a few months ago. She did not recognize me, only spoke of some nonsense about her name being Drizzt."

Gimli's low voice rolled out. "In the mines there are on occasion those who go mad. Sometimes… it is best to put them out of their misery."

"Gimli!" hissed Frodo.

Legolas drew his bow. "Dwarf, if you lay one hand on her I swear I-"

"ENOUGH!" Snow flurried away as Gandalf pounded his staff. "Our quest must proceed as planned. Arwen's grandparents can take custody of her once we reach Lothlorien."

A/N Just some more filler. Lovin' Gimli right now.


	7. Chapter 7

Chap 7

Drizzt soon found that their wizard was not only eccentric but inept, failing to do anything at all meaningful in the face of an avalanche. It was lucky she was alive at all, considering where she'd been when it had occurred. It might have been different if anyone had shouted something useful like a warning rather than just Gandalf's pointless magic. Instead she'd barely peeked out of the saddlebag when the snow buried her. As to why she was hiding in an empty (formerly full of food) saddlebag… well it was freezing up in the mountains and her new body had little trouble bending to fit.

It was surprising how quickly a comfortable but snug resting place could turn into a horrifying coffin. It was embarrassing to still have nightmares as a 43-year-old but if pressed she'd admit that getting buried alive was one of them. In the underdark it was a valid concern, but she'd thought herself in the clear on the surface world. Who would have thought that harmless little flecks of snow could be so suffocatingly heavy.

Scrunched up in the saddle-bag what strength her body had was rendered useless. With her lungs pumping increasingly quickly she lacked the focus to cast any spells, though even if she could she had none that would get her out of this mess. She felt the pony shift, muscles stronger than her own carrying it up against the snow. Sadly its progress came to an abrupt stop as it reached the limit of its height, snow still firmly pressed against Drizzt's prison.

As her odd and often grim life flashed before her eyes she was startled to see the face of a hobbit.

"Don't worry there missus princess lady highness Arwen," stuttered Sam. "We'll have you and Bill out right quick. Us hobbits are good at digging."

Good, loyal, wonderful Sam. For all that she disliked hobbit feet and hobbit eating and was generally both jealous and disdainful of their ridiculously cushy and peaceful lives she was struck with a sudden urge to kiss him. Thankfully the couple hundred pounds of snow holding her bent double in the saddlebag kept her from acting on the impulse. Later that day she would ascribe the desire to lack of air beneath the snow. Still, she was in his debt. The hobbit was useless at a great many things, but he was good at burrowing, even when the snow turned his hands red.


	8. Chapter 8

Chap 8

Drizzt couldn't get an adequate explanation out of the party as to why they turned around. According to Aragorn it would take another eight days to get through the pass. A grueling journey, to be sure, but they were already seven days in. To turn around when they were so close was madness as far as she was concerned.

It was true that there was talk of freezing hobbits and eyes on the pass and some enemy wizard at work but she failed to see how turning around would help any of that much at all. If Gandalf wasn't a complete fraud he should be able to find some way to magically warm the hobbits. Legolas's trick proved the magic was possible, even if he still hadn't bothered to teach her how to do it. But instead they listened to Frodo for some reason or another, despite him being the furthest thing from an adventurer.

With some trepidation she'd returned to the saddlebag after recovering from the avalanche. She took the opportunity to practice casting faerie fire, the light bringing comfort in the small space. Sadly it was a heatless fire, but pretty nonetheless. Strangely she'd never noticed the beauty of the violet flames before, only using them to paint targets for her blades.

While annoyed that they were backtracking, Drizzt was glad that soon she'd be out of these wretched mountains. She was fast learning that not all weather was good, and that winter was far less pleasant than fall. Hopefully it wouldn't last too much longer.

It was three days later before she permanently left her leather sanctuary. It was still bitterly cold, wind whipping at her skirt and snow wetting her slippers. But it was an inconvenience she had to endure. Just like amongst the drow she suspected the only way to gain respect as a member of the inferior sex was to defy expectations, not meet them. If the hobbits could continue marching through the snow (albeit with Boromir doing most of the hard work) then so could and so must she. Besides, she'd been skimping on her exercise of late and the walk could do her good. She'd never get back to fighting trim if she didn't keep pushing herself.

Arms crossed over chilled and curiously stiff nipples she padded after the rest of the group. In her old body she'd never had such a thing happen. If her blouse was made of something less smooth and soft she suspected there would be rubbing issues as well. The strange achy bloaty feeling in her abdomen was more immediately worrisome. It didn't feel precisely like indigestion but there was still so much about Arwen's body that she didn't know. Her best guess was that surface elves were warm-weather creatures and either the thin air or chill of the mountains was affecting her body negatively. If it got any worse she'd have to swallow her pride and ask the haughty elf-prince about his warming spell again.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N timeline isn't perfect but shouldn't be too far off from canon (Homeland).

Chap 9

In the end it was Sam that offered an explanation and aid after her skirt was irreparably stained. In what was perhaps the most embarrassing conversation for the both of them he explained what was happening to her body and that she wasn't dying. The red in her cheeks was not helped by the occasional pantomime when her limited knowledge of his language failed them. She eventually cut him off when he started to stray into an explanation of intercourse using some species of animal as an example.

Considerably scandalized, Drizzt treaded off a ways from the group's campfire to apply the bit of fresh cotton cloth Sam had provided from his sewing satchel. She tried to find a silver lining in that her demon-cursed anatomy was distracting her from the still disturbing talk of elvish immortality Legolas had imparted to her but that swiftly died. After all, immortality meant centuries or more of _bleeding_ every month. Her only hope was that elvish cycles were slower than those of mortals.

Try as she might to recall she still wasn't sure if drow females experiences such a thing. Though worldly in the ways of fighting and survival Drizzt had to admit that she was actually quite unknowledgeable when it came to the intricacies of Drow society. She'd seen too much that sickened her to cleave too strongly to her fellow males and hadn't had much of a chance to learn of females. The first sixteen years of life she'd been raised by her sister Vierna and been quite uninterested in what lay under a female's clothes. From there there the next thirteen years had been spent almost exclusively in the presence of males. After refusing to participate in sex at the graduation party of Melee Magthere with the priestesses she'd grown increasingly distant with her peers before finally heading off alone into the Underdark.

She'd been too disgusted with Menzoberranzan to really regret remaining a virgin at forty-three (not a terribly old age for a drow) but now that she might never be male again she did wonder if things might have gone differently. Was it so impossible that there was another drow out there that shared her values? Her father had not been so terrible, and Vierna had her good points before the school of Lloth erased them. Not all drow females became priestesses though, and it was only nobles like Matron Malice that did not raise their children personally. Perhaps rather than run away she should have done her best to overthrow the ruling class of Menzoberranzan and promote societal change.

Drizzt sighed and pulled her skirt back into place. It was too late now for regret. She'd endured all she could and done what she felt was best at the time. If some actions were the mistakes of youth at least she had escaped the mistakes of her father. And besides, while Arwen's body had a disgusting monthly flaw at least it allowed her to experience the glory of the sun on a regular basis amongst companions far less evil that most she'd had.

Drizzt yelped and rolled to the side as the hairs on the back her neck prickled. The move hadn't been in vain as milliseconds later a hairy beast with yellow eyes landed where she'd been. It leaped at her again, full of claws and teeth, fang and fury, but she was already racing up a tree. Spinning into a backflip she drew her scimitars - ' _Blast it.'_ She was utterly unarmed.

Instead of dealing a killing blow against the beast she landed on its back, gripping its coarse black fur for all she was worth as it went bounding off through the woods. It was dark in the woods but there was enough light from the moon for her elven eyes to make out branches in time to dodge. And while she lacked the strength to even consider strangling its muscled neck she was nimble enough to dodge its every attempt to turn around and gnaw her legs.

Wary of where it might be taking her and suspicious that it might travel in a pack she grabbed its ears, eventually turning it towards the distant glimmers of campfire light. The guard had been raised by her initial outburst, Aragorn slaying the beast beneath her the moment they entered the clearing. The hobbits seemed full of concern even as the others brandished their weapons towards the moon-shadowed woods.

A/N So… writing a zombie book atm… could be fun.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

While the others were wary, Aragorn seemed rather smug as he flicked blood off his blade. "You're safe now my lady." He held his hand out to her to help her up, acting like… Drizzt wasn't sure what he was acting like but it put her on edge. She suspected he was trying to seduce her again. What had Naomi called it? 'Macho behavior' if she recalled correctly. Drizzt didn't like it.

"I can get up on my own," she said, rising to her feet. "And I could have killed it on my own if someone would give me a weapon. You've even armed the hobbits when they barely know one end from the other and yet you won't even let me have a knife to cut my food." Frodo - the only hobbit to understand her Sindarin - seemed a bit upset at her characterization. She didn't apologize. He was part of the problem, always treating her like delicate glass.

The beast was apparently a warg from Legolas's explanation to the hobbits in Westron. More intelligent and darker-natured than a wolf, whatever a wolf was. Despite the danger the attack was refreshing in a way. It was something she knew how to deal with. People made her… uncomfortable. It was something she'd picked up as a child and continued on in this life in unexpected ways. The female elves in Rivendell reminded her in appearance of the females of her homeland. The males, regardless of species, reminded her of them in actions.

It was mostly little things. Lustful glances, the general condescension, their confidence in their own strength as the larger, more muscular sex. Thankfully none save Aragorn had gone so far as to even touch her hand, possibly thanks to Arwen's intimidating father. Still, they worried her, and she wished dearly that Guenhwyvar was with her as she journeyed in the company of twelve men. At least back in Menzoberranzan there had been other men to hide behind when priestesses and other high-ranking females came looking for sexual conquests. That and a carefully cultivated frostiness had kept them away, even as her (then his) status and skill with blades had helped keep lower-ranked females at bay.

It hadn't bothered her to be called the Do'Urden Ice Prince. What was annoying was that she couldn't seem to gain the same reputation here, in large part due to language difficulties. No matter what she did the hobbits seemed to think she was 'cute,' a word whose meaning escaped her but she apparently shared the descriptor with fluffy-tailed rabbits and squirrels. Considering those animals were soon killed and eaten with great gusto the adjective did not put her at all at ease.

Shaking her head out of musing she caught more yellow eyes in the darkness beyond the clearing. Growls came from them but they drew back after an arrow from Legolas produced a yelp. "We should head for Moria," said Gimli. "Safety is but a swift march away."

"Where there are wargs, orcs are rarely far behind," added Aragorn. "What say you, Frodo."

Again they were letting the halfling decide our course. She knew he was a lord or the like of halflings but was it possible his race were the rulers of the surface world? She giggled at the thought, much to the concern of her companions. Let alone rule, hobbits never would have even survived in the Underdark, not unless some subterranean race chose to raise them as livestock.

"We head to Moria," said Frodo. And despite Drizzt's unvoiced opinion that they should fortify camp until daylight, they did.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Apparently the furred beasts were not fond of fire. Torches were made to hold back both night and wargs and the group set off, swords in one hand and torches in the other. Drizzt was gratified that they allowed her to hold a torch as well, albeit a small one. The heat was welcome as her slippered feet tread lightly over the inch-deep snow. It was warmer now that they were down in the foothills of the Misty Mountains rather than its peaks but it was still far from comfortable. The wind, at least, had all but ceased.

She was a little bitter that the first weapon they'd granted her was one that would burn away to nothing in all-too-short a time. The message was clear that they still didn't trust her to act sensibly while not under direct supervision. Legolas was quite possibly the worst offender of late. It was sickening the way that Aragorn acted like she was a mind-injured beloved but still not quite as annoying as Legolas's penchant to talk to her like a child ever since her age was revealed.

Irritation and rage steamed inside her until her body no longer felt chill. Briefly she wondered if this was the trick to Legolas's immunity to cold but decided he was far too blank-faced to let rage rule him perpetually. ' _If only I had my swords.'_ This would have been a great time to save the day and earn the respect of all (or, in much of her experience, jealousy and enmity), but even if she were to nab a dagger from one of the hobbits she'd have no chance to use it. Both Legolas and Aragorn were infuriatingly competent in matters not pertaining to her, easily felling two wargs near a hundred paces back from the party with dead-shot arrows. No other wargs showed themselves, either giving them up for easier prey or waiting for reinforcements. Drizzt guessed the latter

As the fellowship breached the treeline it occurred to Drizzt that she had no idea what Moria was. The explanations the others gave to the hobbits as the group continued their brisk walk illuminated little. The descriptions varied from a mine (Boromir) to the most glorious city ever built (Gimli) to a dank place unfit for life (Legolas) to vague words of unease from Gandalf. Her unfamiliarity with some of the words made it even harder to form a mental picture of the place, but with enemies at their heels she felt it inappropriate to speak - especially when the dwarf was loud enough for all of them.

Rather than another mountain pass they seemed to be headed into a dead end. A rather foul-smelling dead end at that. Drizzt settled down to rest near a stagnant pool as Gandalf glared at a stone wall.

"Another impassable mountain?" said Drizzt. "This is becoming a habit."

Gandalf grumbled at that, puffing on his pipe with greater intensity. Drizzt restrained herself from saying anything further. The hobbits were making enough complaints on their own after Frodo translated her comment for them. She'd be more concerned if this wasn't a relatively defensible position thanks to the pond and high cliffs. It'd be a whole lot better if there was an escape route though.

" _Maybe I could climb up?'_ The rock face was quite sheer but if she magically lowered her weight again she could likely manage it. With a bow and a sword she could circle around and start picking off anything following them. Or, if they still refused to let her take weapons, perhaps carry a rope up so that the others could follow. But she wasn't going to do any of that just yet. Best to wait until the tepid warmth coming off the pond warmed her fingers and toes so that she could actually feel out the crevices in the rock for footholds. Besides, the group would appreciate her efforts more if she let them stew for a bit.

"These are dwarf doors," said Gandalf. "They are the only thing that stand between us and Moria."

"The walls of Moria!" exclaimed Gimli, voice so loud that the echo off the cliffs could likely be heard for miles. Drizzt had thought that grey dwarves in the Underdark were nasty things but these surface dwarves occasionally gave her the urge to strangle them so they didn't hurt her ears. "Long have I wished to see the famed artisanship of my kin."

Drizzt's eyebrow rose at that. Was she mistaken about the meaning of the word 'artisanship'? "Neisa cliff?" she asked haltingly in Westron. She wasn't fond of sounding silly but she was curious enough to warrant speaking the unfamiliar tongue in front of the group.

Gimli was taken aback by her actually saying something not in Elvish but swiftly recovered and belted out his answer. "Dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The seams are hidden with magic and skill so that not even their own makers can see them when closed."

"So how are we supposed to find them?" asked Pippin, thankfully saving Drizzt from having to formulate such a long sentence.

"We search," said Gandalf. "Everyone start looking. There should be a hint or a lever somewhere to open it."

Everyone save Drizzt started probing the rock face, running their hands all over it. Normally she'd be quite good at this sort of thing but until she recovered from the cold it wasn't worth the bother. Best to just sit by the apparently hot spring fed pond and warm up, even if it did stink worse than a goblin. Besides, her seat gave her an excellent view of the fellowship's antics. Merry in particular was hilarious as he started licking the rock in search of a clue, spitting sand out of his mouth every few seconds. 

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Upcoming chapters (12-14) can be read ahead of time by going to lycelia dot com/?id=1r


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